


moon water

by sweatshirt



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Antarctica, F/M, Gen, Science Fiction, Sea Monsters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 02:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11326857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweatshirt/pseuds/sweatshirt
Summary: It's a classic story: Boy goes to an uninhabited ice sheet, boy meets girl, boy and girl find something under the ice.(Or: Fitz is a chemist, Jemma is a biologist, and the whole Agents of Shield gang are working at a research center in the South Pole.)





	moon water

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think-- if you have any confusion or questions. FYI: about half the Antarctica stuff (the journey, the living arrangements) is pretty accurate and about half of it (all the science) is completely made up. But I've never been there.

  
Fitz savors the last bite of his raspberry scone. It’s as good as he expects an airport scone to be, but this breakfast will probably be the last meal he’ll truly have control over. He knows, he knows— there’s a resident chef in the station, but Fitz still expects to be served those freeze-dried ice cream packets from museum gift shops.

He finishes up his breakfast and checks the brand new solar power watch that he bought for the trip. The plane begins boarding in twenty minutes, and he wonders again if he’s really packed everything. The coming isolation scares him, and excites him. The two emotions battle it out in Fitz’s stomach, making him lightheaded and jittery. Or that’s just the lingering effects of jet lag and shitty hotel coffee.

The nerves don’t disappear when he steps onto the small aircraft. The light in the Southern Hemisphere is completely different. Coming from a small rainy country only hours from the Arctic Circle, the constant brightness is so artificial. Maybe this strange sun a good thing. Maybe it will cure his mild seasonal affective disorder.

All of this novelty is nothing compared to the actual sight of the ice. Fitz stares out his window and sees the same thing, like he’s looking into clouds— blue, chrome clouds. The only gaps are pockets of a deeper blue— water, he guesses from hundreds of feet in the air. And then as soon as he’s adjusted to life in monochromatic vision, there’s a shocking splash of other, brighter colors. They’re landing. He’s here. In Antarctica.

 

The first stop is the medical tent for another examination. Fitz has already been prodded an uncomfortable amount of times— though he fears needles like every sane human, he’s willing to do it for science. He’s watched the episode of The X Files where the polar researchers go crazy because of a contagious parasite. He’s not about to put everyone else in danger.

The doctor is a woman approximately twice his height, and clearly more accustomed to the environment. She introduces herself as Dr. Bobbi Morse, and Fitz is surprised to hear her American accent. He thought the base was majority British.

“Hey,” she says as she dabs his arm with rubbing alcohol. “I’m almost as British as you.”

“Scottish,” he mumbles. It’s a reflex.

“Right, sorry. I’ve lived here— there— for ten years now. And I’ve been working in the station for five summers.”

Bobbi Morse doesn’t give Fitz any more of her life story, but she clears him with a clean bill of health after an hour long checkup. Her assistant walks Fitz to the dormitory part of the Halley station. He’s bundled up in a government-approved fur coat, but it’s almost cliche how much the wind burn his eyes. As dark as Scotland is, the temperature is almost always conducive to human survival. Fitz is grateful that he’s indoors after a minute’s walk.

He’s one of the last researchers to arrive, based on the number of equally green scientists milling around the common room and kitchen area. As soon as he closes the airlock and thanks Dr. Morse’s assistant, a man blindsides Fitz and takes his arm for a strong handshake.

“Dr. Leopold Fitz,” the man says in a confident Midwestern accent. “I’m Phil Coulson. Welcome to the operation.”

“Thank you so much,” Fitz croaks out. Coulson’s smile is contagious, so Fitz manages one in return through his chattering teeth. With a wave of his hand, Coulson beckons him to follow through the communal living area.

“This is the bar,” Coulson points out first. Fitz chuckles at the assumed priorities. “But it’s just like any other situation. No drinking on the clock.” Fitz nods. They’d made that very clear in training. It also happens to be common sense.

Coulson gives a brief tour of the kitchen and its confusing number of cabinets. He calls over a man named Koenig, who turns out to be the chef.

“Any dietary restrictions? Any whatsoever. I’ll do it.” When Fitz tells Koenig he eats everything, he is informed that tonight’s dinner will be garlic meatloaf.

The rest of the tour becomes blurrier and blurrier as Fitz’s head seems to slowly lift off the ground. His knees feel heavy and arthritic from the short walk. He sheepishly interrupts Coulson while the man shows him the station’s middling collection of DVDs (mostly Click.)

“Is it alright— just tonight— if I take a nap, or tuck in early?” Coulson shakes his hand once more and leads him to his sleeping quarters, a single room that’s definitely nicer than his college dorm. Fitz has only been awake for nine hours, but his eyelids feel like they’re leaded down. The last thing he hears before drifting off is Coulson’s voice telling Fitz he’ll meet someone named Simmons in the morning.


End file.
